


Now Or Never

by alexenglish



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Comfort/Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: They've gone two years without saying a word to each other.





	Now Or Never

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notverypunkofme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notverypunkofme/gifts).



> Mostly for M, but also for everyone I've ever unleashed my canon Zarry feels on -- I'm sorry, I hope this helps. 
> 
> This takes place a little tiny bit in the future, when promo has supposedly settled down and they're both back in LA. It's pretty ambiguous here, but I headcanon Zayn and Gigi as sweet n' happy non-monogamous partners. There's no infidelity in this fic, so if you gotta pretend they're overly affectionate BFFs, then be my guest. 
> 
> I wrote this and while I was looking for a good lyric title, I realized Halsey's [Now Or Never](https://youtu.be/kzQTc0-iBX8) is perfect, so here we are.
> 
> As always, thanks to Kat for fixing my goddamn commas. I love you.

He’s thought about it a lot. 

Running into Harry again.

He’s thought about whether or not it would be at an award show. A red carpet he absolutely had to walk, an interview that made his tongue thick. _Harry Styles is here tonight_ … Only able to avoid each other because their teams made sure they were sat on opposite sides of the room. The camera panning to each of them in turn after the clever presenter made the inevitable joke. 

He’s thought about LA, about the places Harry frequents. Thought about showing up at that Cafe Harry can’t seem to stay away from and Harry being there; catching each other’s eyes, the long internal debate about whether or not to say hello, camera phones already aimed at them. 

This has always been the most likely scenario. Their most common denominator nowadays is the fashion industry -- fashion collaborations, dating models, friends of models. He’s thought about this the most: seeing Harry at some industry do, all dressed up in Gucci or YSL, tall and beautiful and perfectly at home amongst the rest of the tall and beautiful people.

He’s thought about what he might say, if he might ignore Harry. He’s thought about them watching each other all night, circling slowly until they finally crossed paths. Drawn together by some unseen force, the same one that -- well -- it’s always been like that, hasn’t it? Inevitable, really. 

He’s thought about it so much that when it does happen, he’s not surprised, not really. 

It’s like a movie: Gigi’s hand gripping his bicep and tugging him in, sticky gloss-slick lips brushing his ear and saying, “There’s your boy.” The crowd parting perfectly around where Harry’s stood, bathed in blue and purple neon, raising a long-stemmed glass of champagne to his pink mouth. 

Zayn watches the way he holds the glass, big square palms and delicate fingers; all the rings on his hands are ones that Zayn doesn't recognize, but it’s familiar all the same. Zayn spent a lot of time looking at Harry’s hands. He missed Harry’s hands the most, he thinks.

“Not my boy,” Zayn says lowly. He doesn’t mean to make it sound like a warning, but it comes out as one. He doesn’t need her saying that when there are people around who have no idea what it truly means.

Some people see Zayn in the same room as Harry Styles and expect one of them to throw a strop about it. Some people expect reunion fodder, low party lights glimmering off unshed tears as they happily embrace. He wishes there were some people who didn’t give a shit about it either way, but it’s a Kendall Jenner party, and everyone wants a piece of everyone else. 

The reality is that Harry doesn’t even notice him. He lowers his glass and licks at his lips absently as he looks around opposite the direction Zayn’s stood. There’s a leggy blonde getting his attention, drawing him towards a group of very pretty people that somehow still aren't as pretty as Harry. 

The reality is that even if Harry did see Zayn staring, he wouldn’t do anything about it. 

Harry’s been ignoring Zayn for ages. Having a captivated audience isn’t going to change that. 

“Can you believe Harry and Taylor are at the same party, and you’re the one who’s going to make the headline?” Gigi asks, turning her bright smile to Zayn. She loves to tease him, and, considering how the media still tries to wring out both Taylor and Harry’s relationship for all it’s worth, the idea that he’s somehow trumping Swift with his presence _is_ hilarious. 

It’s hard to play along, though. All he can focus on is the fact that it’s the first time he’s been in the same room as Harry since that fucking pre-Grammys party and, if it's possible, he’s even more unsure about what to do now than he was then. 

At least then, all the hurt was still fresh, despite it being a year later. If they had run into each other, he probably wouldn’t have been able to keep himself from giving everyone the dramatic moment they all wanted. Back then, he had so much shit bottled up, resentment and hurt.

There’s none of that anger anymore. It’s been long enough that the heartache has settled into a soft _wanting_ at the bottom of his gut, and Zayn doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Yeah, that’ll be great to read about,” Zayn says, sliding his hand down her arm so he can tug her towards the patio. There’s a cigarette case full of joints in his pocket, and Griff’s already outside, might as well keep avoiding Harry. It’s the only thing he knows how to do, really. Long gone are the days where he would have walked right up to Harry, said hello, and attached himself to Harry’s side for the rest of the night.

It’s nearly as crowded out back as it is inside, but Jason’s got his legs and arms spread across a whole bench, obnoxiously saving space. He slides over easily enough when Zayn and Gigi get close, letting them sit. 

The first thing Zayn does is light up, smoke licking into his lungs, exactly the kind of distraction he needs. He’s on everyone’s radar with Harry here. Knowing that would normally make him standoffish and moody, but he’s trying to distract himself, so he talks more and laughs louder. If any of them know why, they don’t mention it. Zayn's massively grateful for that.

Griff gets Zayn going about the new hook he’s working on -- he still hasn’t gotten it right, but Griff likes when Zayn tells everyone he helped Zayn with the bridge. All he did was sit there and hum along while Zayn thought out loud, but that apparently counts as a collaboration in Griff’s book. 

“I dunno why you’re trippin’, you don’t need any more material for the album,” Jason says, taking a hit off a joint and handing it over, blue smoke spilling out of his mouth as he looks at Zayn. It’s not one of Zayn’s, but Zayn takes it anyway, shrugging. 

“Not everything is about an album,” Zayn says slowly. It’s hard to make people understand when they’re in this industry. People think creating shit should always be for the end result, for money, for recognition. “Just like where it’s going.”

Zayn makes music because if he _doesn’t_ he feels like he’s going to crawl right out of his skin, brain too overloaded to function. It’s suffocating if he doesn’t. Expressing himself isn’t easy, music makes all the shit he keeps inside flow out. 

Most people don’t get that.

 _Harry does_ , Zayn’s mind reminds him, a tiny record scratch of a tangent before it’s right back on topic. 

“It’s fucking good,” Gigi says, leaning over to pluck the smoking joint from his hands. She grins at him and takes a hit, winking as she passes it. 

“Always is,” Griff says, and they’re off again, chatting shit the way stoned people do -- music mostly, talking about concerts and collabs and -- Zayn’s not even sure, but he lets himself sink into it, lets his brain go fuzzy as the smoke takes over. 

Gigi has her sights set on a petite girl sitting with them. Curious almond eyes, deep bronze skin, purple twists that match the purple of her lipstick. Exactly the type of person they’d take home if Gigi wanted to, but Zayn’s not thinking about that. 

If he’s being honest, he’s trying not to think about anything. It’s the best way to ignore the buzzing at the back of his mind that’s trying to remind him that Harry’s in the house. 

Like Zayn could forget.

“You good?” Jason asks quietly, tapping at Zayn’s shoulder with his wrist so he can hand over another joint. There’s one in Griff’s hand, too. Somehow they got two started without Zayn realizing it. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Zayn lies, raising his eyebrows. He shrugs and takes a hit. He’s so tense his shoulders are pulled tight, nearly up to his ears. He breathes with the next hit, willing them to drop as he exhales. 

“Just checkin’,” Jason says. Zayn’s sure that’s the end of it, but after a beat, Jason says, “You know, ‘cause Harry’s here.”

“Thanks,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes. So much for not mentioning it. “Hadn’t realized, thanks for lettin’ me know.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jason says, smacking Zayn’s arm. “Smart ass.”

“It’s cool,” Zayn says, shrugging again. He’s doing that a lot. “I’m cool.”

“Alright,” Jason says, face dubious. He leaves it alone after that, at least. 

No one else brings it up, which is chill. He’d rather not talk about it if he doesn’t have to. Most of them don’t know anything about Harry except that they were in the band together. Griff and Jason have an idea that there’s more to it, Zayn reckons. It’s hard not to when Zayn censors any talk about Harry, cuts himself off if it gets to personal.

Gigi’s the only one who knows the rest of it. How close they were, how much they meant to each other.

Fuck. 

His attention is wavering, he can feel the flickers at the back of his mind urging him to find Harry. He still doesn’t know what he’d say, but maybe that doesn’t matter.

The next time the joint comes around Zayn waves it off -- his head’s weird and weighted and foggy. If he keeps up with all these Harry thoughts, he’s gunna spiral into a mood. Gigi’s fingers tip-toe across his neck to get his attention.

“Kendall wants to say hey,” she says, eyes heavy-lidded and bloodshot. 

Zayn nods automatically, standing when she does. He didn’t realize they were going to have to go inside until they're at the sliding glass door, but he follows behind her regardless, slipping a cigarette out of his pack and tucking it behind his ear. 

It’s a good excuse, if he needs it. 

He doesn’t let himself look around. Keeps his head up, hand on Gigi’s lower back. It feels like the whole room has their eyes on him. He knows that’s paranoia; the smoke and anxiety. He can’t help the way his spine crawls. 

Kendall and her lot are in a corner of the living room. There’s a L-shaped couch, a bean bag, a glass table with party favors strewn about. The neon is red now, throbbing with the bass. When Kendall says hello, she presses it right up to his ear. He turns a bit and kisses her on the cheek instead of replying. Bella’s there, some other models he can’t remember the names of. 

Adowa and Gigi are already saying hello, a quick kiss on the mouth, sliding down to sit together on the bean bag. There’s a glass with something neon green in it being shoved at him, so Zayn drinks it, lets Bella ask him questions about the Versace shoot for his capsule. 

“Coming along,” Zayn says, with a shrug. The drink in his hand is making his palm ice cold. He switches, and rubs his hand on his jeans to warm it up. “Some of the pieces need to be altered, but we’re still on track for like, getting it out and whatever.”

Eloquent. 

“That’s good,” she says brightly, smiling wide. 

They talk about that for a bit. Bella laments the difficulties of finding designers that will do x, y, and z. Zayn’s not an expert on any of it, so he nods along to most of what she says, shows her prototypes on his phone while she ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ appropriately. 

There’s a lull and Zayn spins, looking for somewhere to put down his now-empty glass. His eyes focus somewhere over Kendall’s shoulder -- he could put it down at the bar, but he’d have to walk over there -- he doesn’t want to be rude and leave it on this table -- maybe he’ll ask --

There’s someone stood next to Kendall, half their face obscured by hers, one hand held loosely behind their back as they lean in to talk to her. It takes full seconds to recognize Harry, brain tripping up --

Zayn feels slightly sick to his stomach when he realizes. Partially because it’s _Harry_ and he’s _right there_. Partially because Zayn looked right at Harry and _didn’t know him_. The whole thing makes his heart sore.

It all gets so much worse when Harry looks up and meets Zayn’s eyes. 

To their credit, they don’t even let the record skip. There’s too many people around, and they’re entirely too well trained. They’re reaching for each other at the same time, an awkward loose hug that Zayn hopes doesn’t end up on the internet somewhere. 

“Zayn,” Harry says warmly, lips skating across Zayn’s cheek, riding the line of his stubble. It’s so close to his mouth Zayn could turn and they could be kissing. 

That would definitely end up on the internet. 

“Harry,” Zayn says, trying keep the butterflies from spilling out of his stomach. At least his voice doesn’t shake. “All right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, sweet furrow in his brow, nodding. He looks amazing, understated for once in all black. There’s an awkward beat of silent. Then another.

“I liked the song,” Zayn says. There’s nothing else to say. That’s the only concrete thing he knows about Harry’s life right now, the music. “Both of them, actually.”

“Really?” Harry lights up, bright and hopeful. With his hair combed back and curling around his ears, he looks impossibly young. 19 again, nervous when he lets Zayn see the songs he’s working on, like Zayn would ever think they were anything less than lovely. His smile widens, impossibly glad to hear Zayn compliment his songs.

The easy grin is what makes Zayn realize he’s been catastrophizing. Anxiety fucks with his perception, and every bad thought he’s ever had, real or not, comes to the forefront. There’s not _actually_ a world in which Harry is an arrogant, self-obsessed person who wants nothing to do with Zayn. They’ve just spent so much time apart, he’s got this idea of Harry -- callous and slightly cruel -- and that stopped adding up the minute Harry pressed his lips to Zayn’s cheeks again. 

“They’re brilliant,” Zayn says truthfully. He’s probably listened to them far more times than he cares to admit. They’re especially good to listen to high, and he wonders if Harry did that on purpose or it’s inevitable when the music has a 70’s vibe like Harry’s does. “Very you.”

At first he was merely curious, then he was… entranced by all of it. Harry’s voice, the instrumentals, the live performances where his voice seemed to tremble at the top of his throat, fragile as hummingbird wings. Zayn didn’t realize how much he missed hearing Harry’s voice until the opening notes of Sign of the Times. 

“Very _me_ ,” Harry echoes shyly, eyes dipping to the floor before he looks at Zayn again. Stupidly, Zayn wishes he could see how green they are tonight. If they’re dark or light, how much gold is there. “I like that.”

“‘Course you do,” Zayn says, with a small smile, still far too aware of the people around them to be comfortable. 

Which is why it’s fine when a couple of models steal Harry away to say hello and fawn all over him. Zayn doesn’t know how long he could make small talk for, doesn’t know where his head’s at with all of it. 

Instead of lingering awkwardly, Zayn makes his way to the bar, needing to get out of that corner. He forgot how much space Harry takes up when he’s in a room. All Zayn’s focus goes to him; Zayn can’t even help himself. It’s been so long, it’s overwhelming.

He ditches the glass and remembers the cigarette behind his ear. Might as well. He looks over to the corner before slipping out, making sure Gigi’s entertained and using it as an excuse to look for Harry again. Harry’s facing him, listening to Kendall. Their eyes catch and hold before sliding away. 

There’s a knot at the bottom of Zayn’s gut, and he knows they’re going to talk in private at some point tonight. They’re going to find an excuse, and -- 

He still doesn’t know what he’d say. Doesn’t know if he could leave well enough alone, or if he’d have to bring up all the messy shit he’s been pushing away for so long. With the other boys, he managed to smooth things over without more vulnerability than necessary. 

Liam was easy, Niall came around. Took a bit more with Louis, but they’ve figured it out. All they had to do was be honest. 

It’s different with Harry, always has been. _Honest_ with Harry is a whole other level of torn open and exposed in the worst way. It used to be freeing, all the secrets whispered between them, all moments that were strictly theirs. 

Zayn can’t imagine that it’d be that simple anymore.

Taylor finds him while he’s smoking, smirk on her painted red lips as she sits next to him on the bench. When she kisses his cheek, he’s sure she leaves a smear. It’s not about him, it’s about Harry, about staking her claim on their dynamic. He’s talked to her more in the past year than he’s done with Harry in the past two, and she knows that, relishes it. 

It’s not malicious, he knows she doesn’t care enough about what Harry thinks for that. Zayn’s pretty sure she just likes the way it looks to outsiders -- the contrast between the way Zayn interacts with her, and the way he interacts with Harry. The fact that she’s chatting with Zayn when she hasn’t said hello to Harry. 

It’s been years. She and Harry are miles from the people they were when they were involved, but she still has to remind people that she’s over it -- moved on, detached herself from him in all the ways that she can. 

Zayn understands the desire to prove that Harry doesn’t have them _all_ wrapped around his finger, he really does. If only Zayn were lucky enough to be one of the people immune to Harry Styles’ charm. 

They small talk through Zayn’s cigarette while she eyes him enviously. If they were chillin’ with Gigi at home, she’d ask him for some. She likes smoking when she’s been drinking, said something once about feeling like an old Hollywood starlet. Red lips, bright blonde hair, lips wrapped around a smoke. 

Gigi cheekily found her a costume cigarette holder last Halloween. Taylor uses it as often as she can, but with an entire party in audience, Taylor won't mention it.

“He’s staring,” she says, after the pleasantries. Of course she’s noticed. He’s been ignoring the large glass windows, kept himself from looking, but her eyes have been dancing around, taking it all in. 

“At you, or me?” Zayn asks, lighting another smoke to be cheeky. She scowls at him minutely before smoothing it over. 

She’s always so conscious of how she looks. Most of the time, Zayn thinks Harry’s biggest takeaway from dating Taylor is exactly that -- the ability to carefully control how others perceive them. Unfortunately for them both, their real selves get lost in translation. People project onto them. 

People like Zayn.

“Why would he look at me when you’re here?” Taylor asks, with a sly grin. Sometimes Zayn thinks she must know about him and Harry, but he’s too chicken shit to ask her outright, so he lets her tease and hint and nudge him about it without saying anything at all. 

“True,” he says lazily. “I am much prettier. No offense.” He looks, just for a second, and meets Harry’s eyes again over Kendall’s shoulder. It should be too dark to tell, but the lights illuminate Harry’s face at exactly the right moment. Zayn’s gut goes tight as he looks away. 

“None taken,” Taylor replies, laughing at him. “He wants to talk to you.” She’s probably right. “He’s waiting for me to leave.” She’s definitely right. “Are you going to talk to him?”

“Probably.” Zayn shrugs stiffly.

“I’ll go mingle then,” Taylor says. She looks a bit sympathetic, but she’s already searching for more people to say hello to, fully prepared to leave him be. 

“Cheers,” Zayn says. She nods and floats away. She’s probably already put them out of her mind. He watches her go, wishing he had it in him to prove her wrong. Wishing he could go off and leave well enough alone, keep avoiding Harry. But, it’s Harry. 

That’s all it ever boils down to. _It’s Harry._

Sure enough, it only takes a few more minutes. Harry slowly peels away from the group and takes the same route Zayn did. To the bar first, charming the bartender before he grabs something clear and bubbly and heads towards the doors. 

Zayn lights another cigarette. 

To his credit, Harry doesn’t even pretend like he’s on the patio for any other reason. He heads straight over to Zayn, ghost of a smile on his lips. He leaves space between them when he sits, not quite meeting Zayn’s eyes as he gets settled.

Zayn takes a moment to look at him. It’s been so long, but he’s so familiar -- the soft underside of his jaw in profile, the smooth slope of his nose. It’s stupid, Zayn thinks, to want to touch someone so badly your fingers ache and tingle, but Zayn wants to _touch_. 

He wants to trace the soft shell of Harry’s ear, the line of his neck down to his collar. He wants to put his hands on as much of Harry’s skin as he can. It’s been so long since Zayn’s seen Harry in person, he forgot that he reacted so viscerally to Harry’s presence. 

“All right?” Zayn asks, when it’s apparent Harry isn’t going to speak first. Harry looks up at him and nods, watching him carefully.

“No one told me you were coming,” Harry says, finger sliding around the edge of his glass absently.

“No one told me either,” Zayn says. He doesn’t know what he would have done if they had. He likes to think he’d still be here, but he’s not sure if that’s true. “It was quite a surprise.”

“Quite,” Harry echoes. “It was going to happen eventually, right?”

“Strange it didn’t happen sooner,” Zayn agrees. The cigarettes down to the filter now, so he flicks it away, resists lighting a new one just for something to do with his hands. Instead, he fiddles with his rings, slides them up and down his fingers. 

Harry watches for a moment before shrugging. 

“Pre-grammys counts.”

“Didn’t even see you,” Zayn reminds him. 

“True,” Harry says, taking a sip of his drink, tongue darting out to chase the taste. Zayn mirrors him unconsciously, realizing it at the last moment when Harry goes back to smirking at him. It falls away when Zayn just stares, mouth twisting.

Zayn is uncomfortable. He wishes he weren’t.

“Not that I’m complaining, but --”

“Do you think we could talk?” Harry interrupts quietly. Zayn was going to ask why he came over, but he guesses that’s the answer.

“I’m assuming you don’t mean right now,” Zayn says. This time he does grab out out a new cigarette, ignoring the way he’s queasy with nerves. Harry Styles wants to talk. 

After two years, Harry finally wants to _talk_.

“I was wondering… If it’s not too much of a hassle...” Harry sets his cup down and wipes his hands on his trousers. “Like, if I could come by your place? Or you could come to mine, maybe.”

“Harry --”

“You don’t have to say yes,” Harry says quickly. And Zayn hates this, hates when Harry looks at him like this -- like he knows he’s asking too much, but he has to ask all the same. “I just think we should talk.”

“Probably,” Zayn admits. Definitely. “My place, then.”

Harry blinks at Zayn slowly, mouth going soft in surprise.

“You didn’t expect me to agree?” Zayn asks, laughing sardonically. Harry doesn’t even answer, doesn’t even shake his head, but he doesn’t have to, Zayn knows. Harry really expected Zayn to tell him to bugger off. Fucking hell. “‘Course not.”

“Sorry,” Harry says. He doesn't sound terribly sorry. Zayn shrugs. 

“I was going to head out,” Harry continues. “But I’ll come later, if that’s alright.”

“Not too late,” Zayn says, unnecessarily. He’ll be up until dawn with how noisy his mind is tonight. He’d wait up for Harry for however long Harry wanted him to. Impatience is already itching under his skin, though, and he doesn’t want to prolong this. 

“Of course not,” Harry says, picking up his glass and draining it. “I’d hug you again, but more people are looking at us, now.”

“Are they?” Zayn asks, keeping his eyes on Harry. The whole time Harry’s been out here, Zayn hasn’t thought about it, too distracted by having Harry so close. 

All the self-consciousness comes barrelling back. He wonders how they look to everyone around them. There’s space between them, sure, but it’s barely a breath. There’s a whole empty space behind Harry since Harry decided to sit in the middle of the damn bench. They’re subtly leaning into each other, haven’t turned away this whole time. 

Zayn’s tempted to look around, but he doesn’t want it to seem like he cares whether or not they’re being watched. Besides, if he caught sight of a camera right now, he’d probably hurl.

“Apparently us talking is a big deal,” Harry says, as cheeky as ever. That manages to make Zayn laugh, loosens up his spine a bit. 

“Apparently.”

“Is your number the same as it was two years ago?” Harry asks bluntly. 

“My private one, yeah. Is yours?”

“No,” Harry says. He grimaces. “I didn’t change it because of you.”

“I just couldn’t have the new one,” Zayn says, taking a drag of his cigarette and ashing it more aggressively than necessary. Harry’s not looking at him any more, eyes off roaming the patio, all the people pretending not to watch them.

“We’ll talk about it later, yeah?” Harry says, after a long agonizing moment. Zayn shrugs dismissively, ignoring the flicker of anger at the back of his mind. Now’s really not the time. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Zayn replies stiffly. Harry raises an unimpressed eyebrow before getting up and dusting off his trousers. He waits while Zayn does the same and puts his cigarette in the ashtray on the table next to the bench so they can make a show of saying goodbye.

They shake hands firmly. Harry holds on with both hands, palms big and warm where they envelope Zayn’s. There’s a smile on Harry’s lips, but he’s not committed, it doesn't reach his eyes. 

“See you soon,” Zayn says, stepping away so Harry can go back in the house. Zayn watches him, unable to help himself, smoking another cigarette before he even dares to follow Harry in. His lungs are sore from chain smoking, but it’s dampening his nerves. 

He finished off his cigarette and goes to find Jason and Griff, letting them know he’s heading home and waving off their questions. It isn’t even midnight, so he knows they don’t believe him when he says he’s tired, but they don’t argue.

He finds Gigi next, pressing a kiss to her cheek before letting her know he’s going home. He doesn’t bother giving her excuses. She dips her chin at him knowingly when he says he’s going to talk with Harry, and tells him she was planning to stay the night with Kendall and some of the other models. 

“You know how much I love my sleepovers,” she says, winking. Zayn nods, wishing he weren’t so transparent. Wishing she wouldn’t just assume that he and Harry are going to fall back into it, but he’d be lying to himself if he said that isn’t what he wants.

What he hopes for. 

 

 

By the time the doorbell goes, Zayn’s a mess. He managed to get home, kick Jason’s friends out, and shower, but it’s been over an hour since he left the party, and he's so deep in his head about everything that could go wrong he can barely think straight. There’s a low buzz in the back of his mind telling him it’s a terrible idea, that they’re going to fight and it won’t solve anything at all. 

The anxiety’s got his stomach clenched in a fist. He’s pacing, trying not to smoke too much, but he’s definitely smoking too much. Usually it wouldn’t even matter, but Harry hates the smell and Zayn’s attempting to be considerate, or something. 

“You came,” Zayn says nonsensically as he opens the door. Harry’s dressed down, in a Rolling Stones t-shirt that’s a bit too big, hair curling loosely around his ears; freshly showered, hair damp, cheeks pink. He looks incredibly soft.

“Said I would,” Harry says, smiling at Zayn nervously as he comes in. Zayn understands. He’s fucking bricking it.

“Tea?” Zayn asks, trying to break the awkward tension in the room. 

“No, I don’t --” Harry cuts himself off, looking at the carpet. He bites at his bottom lip. “Are we alone?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. He couldn't have anyone around for this, risk them being overheard when he doesn't know how this is going to go. They might fight, they might fuck. Zayn doesn't need an audience for either of those things.

“Good,” Harry says, exhaling dramatically before he steps closer. 

In his dumb heeled boots, he’s noticeably taller than Zayn, looking down at Zayn with his bright jade eyes. Zayn thinks about all the times he’s been high out of his mind and tried to mix paint that exact color, upset when he failed miserably. 

Not enough gold on the inside, not enough brunswick on the outside, not enough malachite in the middle of it all. Not enough names for _green_ to cover all the shades and tones in Harry's eyes -- if they were an ocean, Zayn would be drowning. 

They’re not, but he can’t breathe all the same, air stalled up in his lungs. Especially not when Harry reaches out and frames Zayn’s face with trembling hands, watching Zayn closely before he slowly leans down and presses their mouths together.

Lightly enough, but Zayn feels it like a punch in the gut. It takes a second to start kissing back, shock making him freeze up. 

Zayn’s not sure they’ve ever kissed tentatively in their lives. 

They’ve kissed in all the ways there are to kiss. Chaste, sure, domestic kisses -- hellos and goodbyes. Rough, full of teeth and positively filthy. Needy -- kissing more of a necessity than breathing, clinging to each other. Gentle, erotic, winding each other up as they touched each other. 

This kiss isn’t any of those. This kiss is a hesitation, a question mark, achingly tender. Zayn lets out a shaky breath against Harry’s mouth, low whine catching in the back of his throat, eyes fluttering shut. 

Harry sighs and steps closer, making the kiss more deliberate. His tongue darts out, licking against Zayn’s lips and Zayn lets his jaw go soft, tasting the warm mint of Harry’s mouth. They kiss like that until everything is hazy and Zayn can’t think straight.

“What was that for?” Zayn asks, once Harry pulls back, voice wrecked already. They stand there with their foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.

“I missed you,” Harry replies, nearly a whisper. His hands slide from Zayn’s face to his neck, thumb sweeping over his pulse. 

“Is that why you came?” Zayn asks, untangling himself. He can’t go far, not really, not pulled into Harry’s gravity the way that he is, but he gives them breathing room, plants his hands on the front of Harry’s shirt for something to hold onto. 

“What?”

“That,” Zayn says, meaning the kiss. “Are you here to talk, or are you here for… that?”

“I want to talk,” Harry says unconvincingly. Zayn doesn’t think Harry wants to talk _now_. 

“But later?” Zayn asks. Harry nods, lips twitching with a smile, before stepping in and sweeping Zayn up properly this time, arm around the entirely of him, pulling him in so their bodies are flush. Their feet tangle, knees knock, chests press together. Zayn clings to Harry’s back, blinking at him. 

“Later,” Harry agrees.

Zayn knows they really shouldn’t -- not before attempting to sort through things. They’ve spent two years pretending the other person doesn’t exist. Now Harry’s _here_ , and instead of talking it out, Harry’s hands are in Zayn’s hair and he’s kissing Zayn like he didn’t think he’d get the chance to ever again. 

This is all too familiar. The way Harry holds Zayn close and kisses him so desperately. The way their feet tangle as Zayn walks them towards the stairs, trying not to break the kiss. They have to once they get there, parting to slot their fingers together tightly. Zayn ignores the knot of nerves in the bottom of his stomach as he pulls Harry upstairs, towards his bedroom.

The landing is dark, lit up by the neighborhood lights. None of this seems real. It feels like a memory they never made, in this house Harry’s never been to. Harry stands in the doorway, a piece of Zayn’s past surrounded by his present. 

The golden lights from outside tangle in Harry’s wild hair, catch in his bright eyes. Zayn aches from head to toe. A painful nostalgia right under his ribcage -- all the shards of his heart are sharper than they ever were with Harry here in front of him. 

“I missed you so much.” Zayn breathes the confession into the air between them, and Harry’s mouth twists unhappily before he strides forward and cups Zayn’s jaw again. 

“I’m right here,” he says, kissing Zayn, lighting up every single one of Zayn’s nerves.

“You are,” Zayn says, shoving his hands under Harry’s shirt and pushing it up and _off_ before stepping back and tugging at his own shirt. Harry’s hands are already on Zayn’s flies, popping open the button. Their wrists knock as Zayn reaches for Harry’s trousers, smiling against each other’s mouths as they attempt to undress each other. 

This is all too familiar. The way they grip each other possessively as they fall to the bed, nails digging in like they’re determined to tear each other apart -- if only to get to the softest parts of each other. The way Zayn’s whole body buzzes when they kiss, unable to get enough -- wanting, _needing_ Harry, every part of Harry. The way their teeth slide over each other’s skin and bite in, marking and bruising -- the safest way to lay claim. _Mine, mine, mine_. 

Zayn pins Harry to the bed and ruts against him, dicks sliding together roughly. Harry goes hazy with it, smile on his lips so pretty Zayn has to taste it. He licks into Harry’s mouth, kissing and grinding against him until his spine goes hot and tight.

They don’t slow down until Zayn’s got Harry in his lap, one hand planted on Harry’s waist, the other fucking three lube-slick fingers into him agonizingly slow. Harry’s panting, sweat making his hair curl sweetly as his temples, eyes heavy lidded as he watches Zayn. 

His hips move in slow circles, little gasps escaping him as he rocks down on Zayn’s fingers, finding the perfect angle. 

“Wanna ride you.” 

Harry presses the words to Zayn’s jaw as Zayn breathes out a _yes_ , and nearly unseats Harry in his haste to find a condom. 

They fuck like that, Harry sat in his lap, hands clenching at Zayn’s shoulders. Zayn can’t stop touching him; running his hands up Harry’s thighs, scratching over the soft curve of Harry’s stomach, gripping his arse as he grinds his hips down. 

Zayn presses kisses wherever he can reach, over Harry’s sternum and pecs and ridiculous tattoos, biting down on Harry’s nipples so that Harry swears and arches and fucks himself down on Zayn’s cock harder. 

It’s easy, like this; pressing his cheek to Harry’s chest, clinging to his back as Harry rides him, kissing Harry with his eyes screwed tightly shut. 

It’s harder, when he rolls Harry onto his back and thrusts into him. When he gathers Harry’s wrists and pins them above his head, bodies stretching over each other. Face to face -- and Harry doesn’t stop staring when they’re like this, eyes bright in the low light of the room.

This was always when Harry was at his most vulnerable, before, making up for everything they left unsaid by giving himself over completely while they fucked. Broke all his walls down, let Zayn see the vulnerability in his eyes. 

It’s all there now, like the past two years never happened, like they never walked away from it. The look Harry’s giving him hasn’t changed, and Zayn knows they’re both still so in love with each other. 

When Harry comes with Zayn’s hand on his cock, his mouth goes slack and his eyes flutter shut, body arching.

“Keep going,” he says, pulling Zayn in by his arms, locking his legs around Zayn’s hips, so Zayn does -- watches Harry whimper and squirm on his cock, drawing it out until Harry’s moaning incoherently and nearly crying from the overstimulation, teeth biting into Zayn’s lips as they kiss.

After Zayn comes, Harry goes pliant underneath him, hands stroking over Zayn’s back. Zayn can feel sweat cooling, stinging where Harry’s nails dug in and tore up the skin. 

Harry only stirs once Zayn’s done something with the condom and comes back, hovering over him, unsure what to do next. Harry reaches up and tugs Zayn down, hands framing his face as he kisses Zayn tenderly. 

“I gotta wee,” Harry announces, after they’ve kissed for long enough that Zayn’s mouth is buzzing and he’s on his way to horny again. 

“You do that,” Zayn says, rolling off him and reaching for his pack of smokes. He watches Harry’s arse until Harry reaches the en suite and turns the corner. 

“Fuck,” Zayn exhales noisily, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, praying for clarity. 

There’s too much shit to unpack. From the past two years, from before that, since the beginning. They used to huddle up together in tour bus bunks and whisper such saccharine words to each other. Promising _always_ and _forever_. Optimism that neither of them could make good on. 

Zayn’s afraid of confronting that. All the shit they’ve said, the lies they’ve told. Afraid of that adoring look in Harry’s eyes, the idea that they may have changed but their feelings…

Zayn sighs and scoots to the end of the bed so he can hang half his body out the window and smoke. 

It’s warm tonight, air still and unmoving. All the other houses around them are blacked out, windows dark and sightless. He’s still trapped in that in between place, he thinks, where nothing feels quite real. 

The room’s lit up in a blue glow, a combination of the darkness and the lights from outside. There’s a the trail of Harry’s clothes leading up to the bed. There’s a warm, satisfied feeling radiating through him, but his gut is sour with confusion.

It’s Harry’s fault, completely. Made everything imaginary.

That’s nothing new, though. Harry always had that way about him. Flitting in and out with his daydream eyes, capable hands, and wicked tongue. There one moment and gone the next. 

Zayn can remember the feeling he used to get from kissing Harry. In the beginning, it wasn’t supposed to be anything at all. Something birds liked to see when they pulled together. Kissing each other always seemed like a good down payment to watch any of the girls kiss each other. 

Neither of them minded, even if Zayn felt overheated and dizzy afterwards. Proper swooning. He never really thought about it, not in depth anyway. Didn’t realize how gone he was on Harry for a long, long time -- until they were kissing less for the girls and more for themselves.

The toilet flushes and the sink runs. It doesn’t take long for Harry to hook his chin over Zayn’s shoulder, pressing his chest to Zayn’s back. Zayn can feel Harry all the way down his spine, hips fitting together, half hard cock pressed to Zayn’s low back. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, question rumbling through where he’s draped across Zayn. 

The cigarette is nearly out, so Zayn puts it out against the sill and adds it to the crumpled pile of butts there before lacing his hands with Harry’s where they’ve wrapped around him. They’re both without rings, so their fingers interlock tightly, knuckles to knuckles.

“The first time we fucked without a bird between us,” Zayn says. Harry makes a surprised noise. That vibrates through Zayn, too. 

“Why the fuck are you thinking about that?” Harry asks. His breath is hot against Zayn’s shoulder, followed by his mouth, his teeth. A little nibble, a little lick. 

“Dunno,” Zayn replies, dragging his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. He wishes he could explain what’s going on in his head, but he can’t articulate it, not really. All the contrasts are too sharp. Then and now, who they were and how they acted and why. He shouldn’t be making comparisons, but it’s been two years --

“Tell me about it, then,” Harry says, punctuating the request with three kisses down Zayn’s spine. Zayn’s heart throbs dully in his chest. The edgy anxiety of his head offset by the tenderness of Harry’s touch is overwhelming. “What happened?”

“You were there,” Zayn says, with a laugh, trying to ignore it all. “I think you remember.” He knows what Harry’s playing at, but he’s not giving up so easily. 

“No, I’ve forgotten,” Harry lies, digging his chin into Zayn’s shoulder. 

Zayn sighs and turns in Harry’s arms, forcing him to scoot back up the bed. Harry does, but still sat up, so Zayn presses his fingers to Harry’s chest, hinting. Harry complies, lying on his back while Zayn hovers above him. 

“Took a bit, didn’t it?” Zayn asks, pressing kisses to Harry’s jaw just to hear the way he sighs. “Always brought back two or three girls at first.”

“Ah, to be young again,” Harry says, voice breathy and sweet as Zayn drags his teeth over Harry’s pulse. 

“Always trying to get them to shag for us,” Zayn continues. It was probably fucked up, having the girls like that, not giving a shit either way, but they were popstars, went to their heads more than a little. 

They both loved the attention. Loved the thrill of it all. All the girls together, shagging them in the same room -- sat next to each other on the couch, in the same bed. Never shy about letting the other one watch. 

Zayn kisses down Harry’s collar, listening to the way his breathing gets heavier. 

“There were those two --” Harry starts, but Zayn shuts him up with a quick click of his tongue. 

“I’m telling it,” Zayn says, with a sigh. Harry giggles at him cutely, whole face scrunching up. 

“Go on.”

“There were those two,” Zayn says, echoing Harry from earlier. He sits up so he can talk easier, petting over Harry’s chest, the step-ladder of his ribcage, the dark stain of his tattoos. “They wanted us to kiss. So, we did.” 

“It was stupid good,” Zayn continues, watching as Harry bites his lip. “One of the best kisses I’ve had, our first kiss.”

It shouldn’t have been. They were drunk and their teeth hit and Zayn had no idea where to put his hands, but they kissed, and all he could think was _fucking_ _finally_. 

“Shut up,” Harry says, managing to look smug instead of disgruntled. It’s charming. 

“We started kissing more,” Zayn says, voice dropping low. He cups Harry’s jaw, tracing Harry’s bottom lip with his finger. Harry’s tongue sweeps out to lick over it, sending a shiver down Zayn’s spine. “Started bringing up less girls.”

“‘Til we didn’t bring up any girls at all,” Harry says, nipping at Zayn’s thumb. “Just me ‘n you.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says softly, unable to keep himself from smiling down Harry. He remembers. 

That night felt different than all the others, both of them keyed up and ready to vibrate out of their skin. There wasn’t a discussion, they didn’t plan it. They were on the same page without even trying, head in the same place. The minute they got to the hotel, they went straight to the lift and up to their room. 

When they got inside, Harry shoved Zayn into the door and slide to his knees.

“You were so excited you came on my fingers,” Zayn reminds him, thinking about Harry on his back when they finally made it to the bed, watching Zayn with wide, trusting eyes. Zayn’s hands were shaking when he slide them up Harry’s thighs and pushed his legs apart. “Didn’t even get inside you.”

“Oh my god,” Harry giggles, biting at his lip. If it wasn’t so dark, Zayn’s sure he’d see a pink blush on Harry’s cheeks. 

“It was sexy,” Zayn says, voice rough as he nuzzles Harry’s jaw. “So hot for it. Wanted me to fuck you so badly.”

“Somethings never change,” Harry says, arching pointedly. “Still want you to fuck me.”

“Didn’t for awhile,” Zayn reminds him, feeling the truth of it in the tangled knot of his stomach.

It was before Zayn left. Weeks before, maybe months -- he never knew, still doesn’t, all that time blending together in his mind. A montage of fighting with himself about whether or not he was going to leave, show after show after show, running on autopilot.

Zayn was on the bus with Louis all the time, barely made it up to the hotel rooms anymore, didn’t want to bother. There was no point if they were going to turn around and leave in a day or so. He couldn’t handle how temporary it all was. By the end of 2014, Zayn was worn down and exhausted, and it didn’t matter where he slept as long as he fucking slept. 

It was shitty between, towards the end. They were both being pushed too hard, felt like everything was being taken too far. Pulling away from each other, taking it out on each other. 

They barely talked outside of hotel beds. Harry was a ghost -- taking separate flights and spending time with more and more people outside of them and the crew. Zayn was frequently stoned, holed up on the bus in the company of the person with which Harry’s relationship was the _most_ complicated -- outside of he and Zayn, and their dysfunctional love life, of course.

It wasn’t shagging that was the problem, though. That was as good as it ever was. All those quiet moments when it was just them and they knew exactly how the other felt. They clung to that, afraid to let go. Terrified that they were nothing without it. 

That last night, they barely talked, just left bruises dark enough to stain, holding onto each other tight enough to hurt. 

“You should get back to the bus,” Harry had said afterwards, as Zayn smoked on the balcony. He didn’t quite meet Zayn’s eyes, and Zayn just knew. 

“Yeah, I’ll go.” Zayn didn’t even argue, and that was it. 

He still doesn’t know why that was the end of it. They didn’t talk about it. They never talk about it. 

“I always have,” Harry says with a sigh, head dropping back on his pillow. Zayn sits up, but keeps his hands on Harry’s hips. A reassuring point of contact, or something. Harry squeezes his eyes shut tightly. “I always will.”

Zayn rolls off Harry and sits on the edge of the bed, elbows planted on his knees, back to Harry.

“We didn’t talk for two fucking years,” he says. “How can you say that?”

“You didn’t want --”

“ _I_ didn’t want what, Harry?” 

“You were distancing yourself from us,” Harry says, sitting up. His hand comes up and hovers like maybe he’s going to touch Zayn, but he drops it after a quick second. When he talks, his voice is tight. “Reinventing yourself.”

“Like you haven’t?” Zayn scoffs, turning enough so he can look at Harry. There’s a hint of petulance to his expression. “That’s what it’s about, innit? It’s a fucking business model.”

“It was _different_ ,” Harry says slowly. “You left.”

“Because I was fucking _miserable_ ,” Zayn snaps. He knew they were going to go here. Two years and they can’t leave it alone. It feels like he’s an entirely different person, and everyone keeps dragging him back to when he was at his _lowest_ \-- 

“All the shit you said --”

“About the _music_ , Christ.” Zayn scoots over and pulls the blanket over his lap, leaving space between them. Arguing naked is never a comfortable situation to be in. Unless it’s Harry. Harry can do anything naked. “Not about _you_. Any of you. I texted, I called. I didn’t get anything from you.”

“I was pissed,” Harry says, eyes fixed firmly on the pattern of Zayn’s duvet. “Once enough time passed, I figured you wouldn’t want to hear from me.”

“That’s all I wanted,” Zayn says stiffly, trying to push away the flare of anger. It’s not going to help anything if they fight. It’ll make shit worse, and they won’t talk for another two years. Until they run into each other at an industry _thing_ , and then they’ll do it all over again. 

“You stopped calling,” Harry says. 

“You changed your fucking number,” Zayn says sharply. Harry makes a face like he forgot. And sure, Zayn could have asked Liam for Harry’s new number, chased Harry down, but why the fuck was he going to do that when Harry made it abundantly clear he wasn’t taking Zayn’s calls. 

“I --”

“Just, fuck,” Zayn shoves his hands through his hair, eyes tight and hot. He doesn’t want this. 

He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to fight, he doesn’t want to drag out all that hurt from before. He’s barely gotten the splinters out, he doesn’t need to peel back all his layers to find the remaining shards. 

He doesn’t want Harry sat there, looking like he might cry if they talk about it more than necessary. He doesn’t want to blame Harry, or hurt Harry, or push Harry away. He fucking wants Harry. He just _wants Harry_. 

“It was fucked up,” Zayn says. “We could have done shit better, I just want it to fucking stop. I want to move on.”

“Is this moving on?” Harry asks sharply, head jerking up to look at Zayn. He gestures to the mess of the sheets, their clothes on the floor.

Zayn can’t help it, he laughs. Big and a little hysterical. Harry looks like he might start looking for something to throw at Zayn’s head, so Zayn reaches over grabs up Harry’s hands, holding them close to his sternum. Under their knuckles, Zayn can feel his heart beating heavily. He wonders if Harry can feel it, too.

“Wanna move on from that other shit,” Zayn says. “Not you.”

“I thought you hated me anyway,” Harry says, voice thick. He’s not looking at Zayn. Zayn isn’t going to make him. “For making us stop… And then you were gone. Everyone had their own shit, everyone was talking shit. I just figured you were mad, that you hated us.”

“Harry, I _didn’t_ \--”

“It didn’t matter, you were _gone_.” Harry looks at him finally, eyes wide and glossy. The corners of Zayn’s mouth go tight. “You were gone and there was nothing… nothing to reassure me that you were still my Zayn.”

“I didn’t stop --” Zayn says, nearly a whisper. “I didn’t stop being your Zayn.”

“I never thought my Zayn would leave...” Harry says, tugging his hands away. Zayn lets them go, his own falling into his lap. “I never thought you would leave without telling me.”

“I needed to.”

“I know,” Harry says, sighing. He touches Zayn’s face, pads of his fingers sweeping over Zayn’s cheekbones, down to his mouth, his jaw. He rests his hand at the base of Zayn’s neck, drags his thumb over the front of Zayn’s throat, light and reassuring. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Zayn says, and he can’t keep himself from leaning forward and pressing their lips together. It feels like the only thing he can do. There’s a knot in his throat that he can barely talk around, and he knows kissing Harry is the only way to reassure him. 

Zayn’s here. He doesn’t want to go anywhere. 

Harry moans quietly and reciprocates, going soft for Zayn as he deepens the kiss. Zayn touches Harry carefully, traces over his collarbone and down his sternum, skates his fingers over Harry’s ribs -- his tummy, the sharp ridge of his hip bone. He reaches around and circles each notch of Harry’s spine, giggling against his mouth when Harry arches and squirms. 

“I missed you so much,” Zayn whispers, as he lays Harry down again, pressing tender kisses to Harry’s face and neck, sweeping his tongue over Harry’s pulse. 

“Zayn,” Harry pants, grinding his cock into Zayn’s stomach. Zayn reaches between them and tugs him off lazily. “Please.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, reaching for the lube again. 

He’s still loose from earlier, but he loves fingering Harry, loves the way he gets desperate for Zayn’s cock. Loves the noises he makes when Zayn rubs up against his prostate over and over until he’s begging Zayn to fuck him. 

They stay pressed together when Zayn finally gets inside Harry, more of a slow grind than anything. Zayn isn’t desperate to come, too overwhelmed by the way Harry’s all around him, holding him tightly, keeping him close. 

When they come, it’s nearly at the same time, messy and satisfying. 

Harry buries his face in Zayn’s shoulder and clings to him, trembling against Zayn, and Zayn wants to tell Harry he loves him, words ready to stumble off his tongue. It wouldn’t be sweet if he said it now, though. It’d be the product of desperation like so much of tonight has been, and Zayn doesn’t want that. 

It’s been so long, he wonders if Harry’s forgotten about it -- how devastatingly in love Zayn was with him. Or if he thinks Zayn stopped at any point, as if he _could_. Zayn wants to remind Harry the right way. Wants to be able to make promises he’ll keep. 

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen past this. He doesn’t know if Harry will be here in the morning, or if he’ll wake up to an empty space next to him, cold sheets and regret. He doesn’t think so. 

Zayn thinks he’ll wake up with Harry in his arms, and he’ll get to kiss the back of Harry’s warm neck, and it’ll feel like a second chance. 

It’ll feel like starting over.

**Author's Note:**

> Spread the love, reblog on [Tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/159852357922/pairing-zayn-malikharry-styles-rating-explicit)!


End file.
